Cairo by Chris Womersley Page A

position, any more than any other form of government. Take a look around the city one day. Better still, catch a tram in the morning with the peak-hour crowd and you’ll see precisely what I mean. Those people are not only
allowed to vote
but are required by law to do so. And yet half of them have never even heard of — I don’t know — Charles Dickens. All they care about is the hedge of their suburban house and Allan Border’s batting average. They’re reading novels by Jackie Collins. They think Rambo is a great guy. And you think
they
should be deciding who is in charge of the country? No. I’m sorry, but no siree. We need a better system, a sort of … aristocracy, if you wish. A benign dictatorship. The mouth-breathers cannot be trusted to know what’s best for them. I wouldn’t trust most of them to look after my
dog.’
    After delivering this tirade, Max lounged back in the low-slung chair with his right foot — sporting a blue espadrille — jiggling upon his left knee. He was wearing a white open-necked shirt, cream trousers and a frayed straw boater; the overall impression was of a scene transplanted from the 1920s.
    Although a pair of sunglasses obscured Max’s eyes, I was awareof his gaze sliding over to me, registering my presence and flicking back to the cards in his hand. These movements took no longer than a second, but I felt I had been, blatantly, appraised, found wanting and disregarded as unworthy of any acknowledgement whatsoever. He showed no sign of remembering me from the morning I dropped off the letter at his apartment. With eyes still fixed on his cards, he reached down beside his chair, picked up a teacup with a floral design from its saucer, and took a sip before replacing it.
    â€˜It’s your turn, you know,’ he said to his friend.
    Feeling exposed as I stood on the rooftop in the opulent sheen of the morning sun, trowel in one hand and bag of potting mixture in the other, I hesitated. A trickle of sweat zigzagged across my ribcage. It was excruciating, akin perhaps to forgetting one’s lines in the glare of the footlights. So thrown was I by the presence of Max and Edward that I forgot why I had come up to the rooftop in the first place. A tram ground past on Nicholson Street behind me, dinging its bell.
    I have always viewed most human beings with the mixture of fear and puzzlement that I believe most people view lions, say, or other wild animals: they are mysterious creatures, sure of themselves and their place on the planet. I, on the other hand, have never been confident of anything and lurch from age to age, always hopeful that each new decade might bring me the knowledge of how to be in the world. It has taken me a lifetime to understand that most individuals are beset by similar insecurities, but it is now too late to use this to my advantage.
    On that morning, my instinct, honed by years of discomfort in social situations, was to act as if I had suddenly recalled something vital (slapping palm to brow, chastising self) and retreat down the stairs, cower in the curtained gloom of my apartment and wait for a more opportune time to re-ascend to the rooftop, if I ever dareddo so again. But somehow, gathering to myself a fistful of courage I had never known I possessed — let alone gathered — I began poking around in the three large wooden tubs from which I had picked basil and oregano for Aunt Helen all those years before.
    The actual tubs were in lousy repair, but perfectly usable. The same could not be said of their contents: any organic matter was no longer to be found. Instead I dug up more cigarette butts and bottle tops, along with aluminium ring-pulls and shards of broken glass, from the dry soil. This rubbish I put to one side before pouring the potting mix into the tubs and planting the seedlings of basil, thyme and parsley that I hoped would provide me with a bounty of herbs in the coming months. It was